


Past Touch and Sight and Sound

by librata



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier Needs a Hug, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Cherik Big Bang, Cherik Big Bang 2020, Epistolary, Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Letters, M/M, Minor Character Death, Movie: X-Men: Dark Phoenix (2019), POV Erik Lehnsherr, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Post-X-Men: Dark Phoenix (2019), Protective Erik Lehnsherr, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smitten Erik, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014), X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 16,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26418214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: On a February afternoon in 1962, Raven told Erik that the best way to apologize to Charles is to write him a letter. Three decades later, her words still find truth.Or, the story of Cherik, as told through letters.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 140
Kudos: 60
Collections: 2020 Cherik Bang





	1. Letter 1 - February 3rd, 1962

**Author's Note:**

> “How Clear, How Lovely Bright”  
> by A.E. Housman
> 
> How clear, how lovely bright,  
> How beautiful to sight  
> Those beams of morning play;  
> How heaven laughs out with glee  
> Where, like a bird set free,  
> Up from the eastern sea  
> Soars the delightful day.  
> To-day I shall be strong,  
> No more shall yield to wrong,  
> Shall squander life no more;  
> Days lost, I know not how,  
> I shall retrieve them now;  
> Now I shall keep the vow  
> I never kept before.
> 
> Ensanguining the skies  
> How heavily it dies  
> Into the west away;  
> Past touch and sight and sound  
> Not further to be found,  
> How hopeless under ground  
> Falls the remorseful day.
> 
> From the bottom of my blackened heart, I thank [Midrashic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midrashic/profile) for essentially carrying me through this fic. She is amazingly talented, brilliant, and the best brainstorming partner a sad gorl could ever ask for. Thank you, so, so, so much.
> 
> I also want to dedicate this to [IreneADonovan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan) for being unbelievably flexible and accommodating with your art (link to come). And then to [lavenderlotion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/profile) for the constant kind words. And finally, to the magnificent [FlightInFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/profile) for stepping up and running this event when she really didn't have to.
> 
> Thank you, all. You're all amazing.
> 
> Now, enjoy the sorrow.

Dear Charles,

Since it’s been four days since you’ve last acknowledged me, I’ve come to employ the most desperate of measures to vie for your attention. Your sister, the accommodating woman she is, let me know that you rather like formal apologies when you feel you have been wronged, and so, here I am. 

I, Erik M. Lehnsherr, do formally apologise to you, Dr. Charles F. Xavier, PhD., for consuming the last of the (birthday) cookies (which were prepared for me, on my birthday). I was not aware that you had been saving the final cookie (which, again, had been prepared for me, on my birthday), and I feel terrible for having wronged you so egregiously (despite the fact that the cookie was mine, in the first place).

To atone for my most terrible misdeed, I have laboriously made another batch of chocolate chip cookies (even though it is not your birthday). All other residents of this building are firmly aware that no cookie from this plate (of non-birthday cookies) is to be eaten without your express consent, and should a morsel disappear otherwise, punishment in the form of your cold shunning. 

Please accept this most sincere and conciliatory apology, Dr. Xavier. I shan’t go on in your ill graces any longer.

Yours most apologetically,  
Erik M. Lehnsherr


	2. Letter 2 - February 15th, 1962

Dear Charles,

I am in utter disbelief that I find myself, again, in a position which forces me to request your forgiveness in such an inane manner, but since I had success with my last attempt, I suppose I shall do so once more.

Dr. Charles F. Xavier, PhD., I do offer my humblest apologies for omitting to inform you that _Psycho_ is, in fact, a horror film. Additionally, I apologise for...intentionally misleading you into believing that the film was a study on human psychology rather than a sensationalised, gory tale of insanity. I was unaware that the sight of blood makes your stomach queasy, and I was also unaware that you dislike suspense of that nature.

I did not intend to ruin your evening as such.

In my defence, if I may, you _are_ capable of discerning a misleading description when one is floated your way. In fact, you’re far more equipped than anyone I’ve ever encountered to do so. You claim to trust me, but should you trust me so much as to forgo scans of my thoughts to verify certain topics?

With this knowledge abound, is the onus of blame on myself for my intentional misguidance? Or is it on you for harboring an unjustifiable faith in my intentions?

This, Charles, is the question that we should really be discussing. I propose that we do so at length in person, at 10:00pm this evening, over a game of chess in your study. I will supply the scotch.

We shall continue this conversation then.

With Regards,  
Erik


	3. Letter 3 - April 9th, 1962

Dear Charles,

Sometimes, I wonder how you can be so immature as to ignore me when you’re upset. My young sister used to do the same to me when I angered her. I suppose your points are always well-taken, though–you make it very clear when you are unhappy, and that is likely to your advantage. For what it’s worth, it gets you to your end goal (which is an apology from me).

I apologise for frightening you by pushing Sean off of the satellite (even though he was fine). I did not mean to startle you so, and (even though the boy is better off for it and we were able to procure a modicum of control from the disastrous mess he typically is) I do hope that you will not lose your faith in my ability to assist the boys.

Our disagreement upon methodology, however, raises a few questions, questions which I believe warrant discussion. If you and I are to be training young mutants to use their gifts with greater control, I expect we will encounter further differences in our ideologies. I respect our different backgrounds and our different frames of reference, but I do not want to be viewed as two separate figures, to our students. We will be better served if we are united, with a set of agreed-upon standards for how we conduct our training.

Coddling, Charles, does not work. I know that you want to will the control out of these boys by building their confidence. As a geneticist, you ought to understand that the base instinct for survival is what has kept our species strong for so long. Placed under stress, extraordinary abilities manifest, even in non-mutants. I am certain that you are aware of this.

Perhaps you have always had the freedom to explore your gift in peace and privacy, tucked away in this large estate with a staff of people to use as test dummies. Not everyone, however, has had that privilege, and that must be taken into account when dictating our methods.

I encourage you to look outside yourself, for a moment. Gentle coaxing may have helped you unearth your control, but I do not expect that we will do much service to mutants in need if we continue down that path. Just talk with your sister–I believe she’s learned quite a lot since we’ve been introduced.

When you’re finished stewing, please find me. We can discuss this matter further.

Regards,  
Erik


	4. Letter 4 - May 22nd, 1962

Charles,

I did not mean for you to witness what you did last night. I had no idea that I was “projecting,” as you call it, and as soon as I figure out how to keep these dreams sequestered in my own head, I won’t let them slip out again. I promise.

I apologise for growing angry with you when you woke me. I understand why you did. I did not intend to snap or become ~~k~~ curt. I was startled. Still, I know it’s no excuse.

Dreams are a strange thing, aren’t they? How a mood and atmosphere can infect a series of events so deeply, on a level so visceral it can’t be described in words.

To answer your flurry of questions which I (so rudely) rejected earlier:

1\. Yes. The nightmare you witnessed is one that I have somewhat regularly. 

2\. Yes. That is an experience I’ve had in my waking life. Of course, my subconscious has embellished it to a large degree, but it stems from a real event.

3\. Yes. I am alright. I always am.

I hope that I have not caused you any undue stress, Charles. Nightmares are no cake walk to bear alone, but to force another to witness you at your most vulnerable is an entirely different type of anguish. 

I’ve also been forced to realize that you must be faced with swaths of unpleasantness at all times. Prior to this morning, I admittedly only considered the benefits that come with telepathy. The only other telepath I know projected so much confidence and poise that I’d always imagined your gift to be one with few drawbacks. In hindsight, I can see how foolish it is to think that way–and you’ve probably thought me foolish for thinking this way. 

Like the other telepath, you also project confidence and poise. Unlike her, however, I find that I trust your intentions. My anger at you for, as I so delicately phrased it, “being a filthy peeping Tom,” was misdirected, and I sincerely apologise for that, too.

My mind, Charles, is not always a pleasant place to be. I don’t know if anyone’s mind is, but I have to imagine that mine is more stressful or sorrowful than what your positive nature is equipped for. I will not ask you to try and refrain from dwelling inside of it for too long, but I will caution you, with true care, to do so. You will be far better off for it.

Again, I can only apologise and hope you haven’t been too upset by what you witnessed. Please, wake me immediately, with force, if you’re ever choked into another one of my nightmares. 

Yours,  
Erik


	5. Letter 5 - May 31st, 1962

Dear Charles,

I expect that you’ll never want to see me again, and that’s entirely understandable. My bags are packed and I’ve just put my bedding in the dryer. They should be clean and dry by the time you receive this letter.

~~I don’t know what came over me.~~

~~I should not have done that and I can’t believe I did~~

I pen this letter to apologise. What happened in your study last night was not something I am proud of nor can explain with any degree of logic. I can’t even hide behind the guise of drunkenness, because, in all honesty, it was with an entirely sober mind that I found my eyes fixed on your lips, and––

And, it doesn’t matter. I cannot stress how sorry I am for kissing you. 

I know that you fancy women, and I do, too! I’ve always fancied women, and I continue to do so. Again, I can’t really explain why and how that happened last night, and I cannot blame you in the slightest for wanting me gone. It was wildly inappropriate, and I’m sure you think me some kind of terrible deviant for- - - -

Never mind. It is now late into the evening, and I’ve just arrived back in my bedroom after you barged in this morning, grabbed my face in your hands, and kissed me .

After re-reading the beginning of this letter, I have to laugh–I’d been so worried that I’d ruined everything we have built so far. 

Right now, I feel light as a balloon. I haven’t felt this way in a long, long time. 

I’m sorry, then, for the overreaction. Perhaps it’s time I stop assuming things, as you say.

Always,  
Erik


	6. Letter 6 - July 14th, 1962

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

This past month-and-a-half has been...eye-opening, for me. We’ve spent so many days at each other’s sides, from sunup to far past sundown. Typically, I tire of others rather quickly because I find that their company erodes at my composure, but for some reason, that has not been the case thus far with you.

We disagree on plenty. That is becoming more and more evident as we put structure into our plans. In fact, if I may speak candidly, I think that you and I will have an immensely difficult time standing as a united front before our charges. You and I believe in starkly different methodologies, come from backgrounds that could not be more divergent, and, frankly, have little in common vis-à-vis philosophy.

Regardless, I’m finding that the commonalities outweigh the differences, when it comes to you. I’ve never before felt so challenged by a peer, or so stimulated, intrigued, amazed. You, Charles, have a personality about you unlike any other I’ve encountered. When I wake, I think about our plans for the day. When I lay down to sleep, I think about what we’ve done, what you’ve said, what you’ve made me consider.

I feel for you like I’ve felt for no other before. And, for that, I am sorry.

Not only is it unprofessional or unproductive, I’m certain that it’s unrequited. We may kiss and be physical, but how could a man of your calibre stoop to have feelings for a man of mine? Your positivity, incredible capacity to love, and gentleness is ferociously incompatible with so many things that make me who I am. I know that we can never _be_ for many, many reasons, so I am so, so sorry to have to taint our friendship with hindbrainish thoughts of you.

You deserve more than me, Charles. You deserve someone who can honor you for who you are and support your pursuits of peace. 

I know Moira fancies you, and I’ve watched your eye wander to her, too. I think you could do better than her, ~~but, who couldn’t you do better than?~~.

Goodness, I sound like a child. I’ll surely be ashamed of myself when I read this in the morning. 

Blathering and idiocy aside, I’m sorry, Charles. I wish I didn’t harbour these childish feelings for you, but I do. I will do everything in my power to ensure that they do not interfere with our collective goals, you can be sure of that.

Yours Truly,  
Erik


	7. Letter 7 - August 1st, 1962

Dear Charles,

You need not be so conciliatory. I shared my nightmares with you, so it’s only fair, it’s only just, that you share yours with me. In fact, I feel _lucky_ to have been the one to bear witness to your projection, last night. Not only do I feel that I have strength enough to endure it, but, perhaps, it means that even your subconscious harbors a degree of trust within me that I likely do not deserve.

I am incredibly sorry, however. Sorry that I assumed your upbringing was soft and easy. Sorry that I never even considered the fact that you may have hidden demons, as we all do. I suppose I assumed that your wealth and education had kept you from difficulties growing up, but it did not occur to me that those assets come with troubles of their own.

The men in your nightmare. You told me that they were your stepfather and stepbrother. Are they still alive? If so, I would like to help you find and confront them. I already know that your immediate reaction will be one of denial--in fact, I can almost perfectly envision what you sound and look like right now. “No,” you’ll say to me. “I’d rather not unearth old feelings or fight battles that needn’t be won.”

This is another point where you and I disagree profoundly. There can be no peace, now or in the future, if those who cause harm do not pay for their misdeeds. You said it yourself; find the place between rage and serenity. I cannot let go of rage if those who disrupt serenity are allowed to walk free. I’m not sure that you truly can, either. I don’t think anyone can.

Evil creates imbalance, Charles. No one can rest at that spot in an imbalanced world, because one side will always tip the scales. Unfortunately, evil is heavier than good.

Your stepfather and stepbrother were cruel, sickly people who do not deserve the pardons you’ve given them. And, I’m incredibly sorry that I’ve ever discounted your experiences as plush. I should not have, and I will not, moving forward. You have strength unlike any I’ve ever seen.

Let me help you. Let us find that place, together,

Regards,  
Erik


	8. Letter 8 - September 10th, 1962

Dear Charles,

Raven has dutifully informed me that I “ruined your birthday” by insulting your culinary skills--or, lack thereof. I did not know that it was a sensitive subject with you; to my knowledge, everyone is well aware that you’re about as useful in the kitchen as a toddler in a chemistry lab.

However, it has come to my attention that my comments have offended you, and for that, I apologise. Your birthday is meant to be a day in which you feel honoured and adored, and I do feel badly that I’ve reminded you how you once burned a pot of water and dropped an entire bowl of sugar into my pancake batter. Your birthday is not a day to discuss how you once asked me if 500 degrees Fahrenheit was too warm to slow cook a casserole, or bring up the fact that you did not know the difference between shallots and garlic.

Please, Charles, take this freshly-baked lattice apple pie with hand-churned vanilla ice cream as an apology. An apology for making everyone laugh by recounting the story of you trying to scramble a hard boiled egg, as well as the one of you setting a pot on fire after forgetting to add water to your rice, and also the one where I nearly lost my entire lunch because you accidentally used salt instead of sugar in your “muffins.”

Despite my inane rudeness over your dangerously-poor cooking (in)abilities, I do hope you enjoyed your birthday. I had a nice time cooking for you, at any rate, and it seemed that you had a nice time eating what I prepared. If you’ll let me, I will further make it up to you later this evening, if you come by my bedroom after nine.

Until then, I wish you the very best for the rest of your birthday.

All the best,  
Erik


	9. Letter 9 - September 30th, 1962

**UNSENT**

Charles,

I don’t think I can bear to deliver this to you, but perhaps writing will quell my unsettled mind. You’ve promised that you won’t search for things in my head or the head of anyone else for secrets that aren’t meant to be yours. In case this one makes it to you, I would like to have my thoughts in a somewhat orderly fashion.

Raven and I kissed.

She was hurt. She was unsure. She feels lost and misguided and does not know if she is worthy of being appreciated for who she is. For so many years, she has been told, _by you,_ that she must hide her true identity and do whatever she can do to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

You say that you’ve done so because you want to keep her safe. What if hiding is more dangerous than being exposed?

I kissed her, because she deserves to know that she is worthy and powerful in her true form. Her blue skin and yellow eyes do not deem her a freak to be hidden away, but a force to behold. You and I are lucky in that we have the privilege to use our gifts inconspicuously. Her gift is _to be_ inconspicuous. 

Can you imagine having to live your entire life as a figment, a mere facade of your true self? Living in civil society, we do it on a regular basis, but your sister has been made to feel that it is the only way she can be allowed to live.

I’m sorry, Charles, that it’s come to this point. I’m sorry that Raven feels that she must hide from the world for the sake of her safety. I’m sorry that it is you who has put this into her head.

Sometimes, you talk out of both sides of your mouth. You preach confidence, but instruct others to practice fear. I cannot, and will not, tolerate a life of cowardice and falsehood.

I hope that one day, you may be able to see the other side.

Erik


	10. Letter 10 - October 11th, 1962

Dear Charles,

As I write this, you’re asleep in your bed. You’ve been calling it “our bed,” over these past weeks.

You’re naked. Your hair is messy and your expression is calm. Your mouth is slightly ajar. You’re at peace.

You’re beautiful.

You trust me. 

I hope one day you’ll forgive me.

I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.

Erik.


	11. Letter 11 - October 13th, 1962

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry.

I felt your hurt. I felt your anger. Even beyond the shield of the helmet, I could feel your anguish run through my own blood, splinter my bones, twist my stomach into knots I don’t know will ever be untangled.

I’m sorry, Charles. 

I can’t imagine how painful it had to have been, for you, to be in that man’s mind as I killed him. I wish it hadn’t ended that way, because you did not deserve to feel that pain. You deserved none of it.

To be truthful, however, I cannot in good conscience say that I regret what happened. I regret how it was done. I regret that you’ve been swept in as collateral. I regret that I’ve decimated what you and I had.

But, I do not regret the end result. 

Does that make me the monster that you’ve promised me that I’m not? Does that mean that I’m an outlier to your philosophy, the one person out there who actually is beyond help? I don’t ask that with the narcissism that it may imply, but with genuine concern. 

I never wanted to turn your world upside-down, Charles. I never wanted you to lose that hope that so hypnotically drew me to nearly a year ago. That hope is part of what defines you as who you are.

Your world would be far better off had you not met me. Perhaps you’d still have that unsullied view of humanity, in which people are always qualified for redemption. You’d not have the trauma of another man’s death etched into your memory, or the sting of broken trust.

You’d still be smiling. Eager. Ready to tackle life’s obstacles in the way you feel is best. I can only hope that, one day, you can be that man again, the man you were before I tethered myself like an anchor to you, pulling you into depths you never intended to reach.

Again, I can understand that my narcissism may be exhausting here, and I apologise for that, too. I merely wish that you can find peace, once more.

Love,  
Erik


	12. Letter 12 - October 15th, 1962

**UNSENT**

Charles,

I’ve just been to the hospital. You were asleep, and so were the other three boys. I didn’t want to wake you. 

Raven impersonated a doctor. Found your chart.

~~I’m sorry~~

~~I can’t apologise enough for~~

~~Is there any hope at all that you’ll walk again~~

There aren’t words to describe my regret. Had I known, on the beach, what the impact of that bullet had been–

~~It was Moira. She shot the gun. The bullet came from her gun, and I was trying to protect myself, and you jumped out at the wrong time, and~~

It was my fault. You were right, she didn’t do this. I did. It’s my fault.

I’m aware that this is not something I can undo or fix. I can hope to find a mutant who heals and send them your way, but I know that it would be futile to bank on such a miracle. 

You will never forgive me for this, and I understand that. You never ought to forgive me for this. What I’ve done is entirely unforgivable, and it’s selfish and cruel of me to expect that you’ll one day be able to look me in the eye again and hold that same level of trust that you once did.

I have not earned that right, and I never will. 

I asked Moira to take care of you. I trust the woman little, but a fair deal greater than I trust myself. If she fails, I’ve no doubt that your Beast will see to it that you’re supported in all the ways you need to be. He idolises you.

It may come across as tiring and flat, but I do have full confidence that you will be able to accomplish all of the things you once hoped to, despite the set of challenges I have been complicit in creating for you. You’re an incredibly brilliant man, Charles, and your willpower and faith in others will serve you well. If you’re even a scrap of the man I think you to be, I know you won’t let damage I’ve done waylay you for long. You’ve never been fond of letting me win without a respectable fight.

I didn’t stay, because I expect my face is not one which you want to see, right now. And even if it was, I can assume that your boys would have me tossed out, if not arrested. I’m a wanted man once more, and I will not bring that danger to your doorstep. It’s another thing that you don’t deserve.

Best wishes for a speedy recovery, Charles. 

Regards,  
Erik


	13. Letter 13 - December 24th, 1962

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

It’s been awhile since I’ve last written to you. I expect that you’re back at your estate, rebuilding your plans with your faithful team at your side. At this time next year, you may have a deluge of children at your feet, asking for another holiday treat as you enchant them with tales of magical men in red velvet costumes. That would suit you well, I think. 

Your sister misses you ~~and so do I~~. She’s worried that your recovery did not go smoothly, or that you’re in immense pain. I’ve told her several times that she is not obligated to stay with me, that she’s free to visit you as she pleases, but the woman is nearly as stubborn as you are.

I’m sorry that this is what it has come to, Charles.

But, at the same time, I cannot in good faith say I believe that with you is where Raven belongs. Since we parted ways, I have witnessed an evolution in her. She walks with confidence and strength and possesses a fire within that I hadn’t detected, before. She’s no longer a cautious, quiet little sister who looks to her big brother for guidance. The Raven I’ve come to know over these past few months is strong, intelligent, and passionate. She is no longer afraid to be her true self around others.

She’s a different person, now. She’s her own person. And I’m sorry that she could not be with you.

That does not take away from the fact that she misses you, and that you miss her, undoubtedly. I know that you two were close, and I regret that a family was broken up on my behalf. I really do.

Keep well,  
Erik


	14. Letter 14 - February 9th, 1963

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

Rhetoric is a powerful force. It can decimate entire populations, create others, spur change quicker than anything else.

It’s always beneficial to have popular rhetoric favour your cause. As such, it is becoming ever more evident that our kind will never be rhetorised in a way that paints us truthfully. There must always be an other to hate and to blame, and I cannot foresee a time in which our kind is not at the receiving end of that malicious treatment. 

Not without firm intervention, anyway. 

I know that you believe that we can achieve equal status and respect peacefully. I know that you believe it with every ounce of your will. 

I’m sorry, Charles, but we cannot be so naive. Peace does not radicalise the masses. Violence does. 

I truly wanted you to prove me wrong and show me that we could achieve the utopia you envision without collateral damage. You imagine this to be the truth and you do so with unwavering confidence, and while I am now content to accept your position, I cannot join you in your inaction. 

I’ve watched far too many people die because of the vain hope that kindness and goodness could will the world into righting its own wrongs, Charles. If only we could quash all evil with love.

You know well that this has never been the case, in the timeline of humanity. The annals of history cannot be more plain in their predictions for the future–society does not evolve peacefully. Bloodshed and pain and loss are catalysts of revolution. I implore you to get your head around this concept before you find yourself backed too far into a corner to ever escape.

You will be disappointed with what you are going to see, from me. I can’t imagine a scenario in which my name and face don’t reach your newspaper or television set–the fearful rhetoricians have already begun to spin terrible tales of Magneto and his radical agendas. You are not going to be pleased with my actions to come. And for your disappointment, I am sorry, but I cannot yoke myself to your fanciful dreams of peace when I know chaos is the only method for change.

If you were here right now, I imagine that you’d frown, cross your arms, shake your head, and tell me that I need to open my mind. But, you are not here, and maybe, that’s for the benefit of our kind.

Regards,  
Erik


	15. Letter 15 - June 15th, 1963

**Unsent**

Dear Charles, 

You got a new student, last month. I hope he’s settled in well and found a place at your school. I don’t know what he’s told you or what you know. When I met him, he wasn’t extremely forthcoming. 

You may have heard the story––I believe that the national news stations publicised that, in May, Magneto and his cronies broke into a government facility and killed four employees. What they failed to disclose was that six mutants were being held captive within that facility, and the four murdered employees were scientists and doctors, overseeing experimentation on the mutants.

It seems that I’ve become a household name in this short period of time.

Disastrous journalism aside, we were able to free the entrapped mutants. There were five adults and one child, just a teenager of fifteen. His head had been shaved, and his captors had tried, without success, to extend his mutation’s capacity artificially. 

He was a telepath, but with maybe a tenth or less of your capabilities. He was scared, and angry. And in pain--he was immensely overwhelmed by the vicious onslaught of foreign minds and did not know how to protect his own sanity.

So, I sent him to you, Charles. Finding this boy reminded me why you and I hatched our initial plans. There must be so many children like this one, who need nothing more than a teacher and home where they’ll be looked after, cared for, and taught. And, I’m sorry that I can’t be there to see that become reality. If I could, I would split my time between my work and assisting you with your endeavor. What you are starting is immensely important, and I believe that your guild and my guild can one day coexist as, perhaps, sister organisations. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but at the end of the day, you and I both want the same thing.

You insist that we don’t, but I know that to be false. We merely have differing methodologies. 

Regardless, I wish that I could be there to help you with this boy, and the rest of them. They need someone like you, but I also think that they need someone like me. And I’m sorry that the differences between us are preventing this from being so.

Wishing you and your school well,  
Erik


	16. Letter 16 - December 18th, 1963

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

It has come to my attention that I am remarkably unpracticed with bullets.

By now, I’m certain that you’re aware of the recent assassination of the President of the United States. And I’m equally certain that this assassination has caused the already unsympathetic view of mutantkind to sink even further, perhaps to the point beyond return. And for that, I am truly sorry.

Charles, I did not intend for the man to die.

He was a mutant, like us. His wife--widow--is a mutant, too. An anti-mutant fringe group had been plotting the murder for nearly a year now, and I had every intention to prevent the bullet from coming within 100 yards of the man.

I misjudged the trajectory. Greatly. 

No one believes me, of course. The United States government will not even execute me for my supposed crimes, as they are still wondering whether I’m more useful to them alive than dead. Anyone with a fraction of common sense knows that I would be immensely useful if weaponised, but no one is willing to admit that this is what their intentions are.

Currently, they’ve got me in a temporary facility, made entirely of wood and wooden screws. I’m shackled to a concrete floor. Seven men have lost their lives due to carelessness with their preparations--one would think that someone might realize that lightbulbs, indeed, are full of metal, too.

From what I gather, they’re constructing a new facility for me, made entirely of material immune to my control. I have to wonder how much trial and error they will go through until they find something that is truly effective. 

I am confident that I will find a means of escape before they reach that point, however. I’ve let a prison keep me confined once and I vowed that I would never do so again. You can rest assured, Charles, this is only the beginning. 

Until I emerge, however, I can only hope that your kindness and goodness can bandage the broken standing of mutantkind among humanity. At least until I can resume my own work. And, with full disclosure, I am very, very regretful that it has come to this. My goal was not to create greater messes for our kind. I am sorry that you have to endure the ramifications without me.

Be well,  
Erik


	17. Letter 17 - May 2nd, 1964

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Minor character death, and depictions of violence. Please skip ahead if you'd prefer!

**UNSENT**

Charles,

I’ve had no writing implements for months–I’ve only just acquired an ink pen and scrap paper. 

The man who brought me the supplies takes the liberty to read me the most noteworthy events of the week, and I’ve just--

I’ve heard about Banshee. He’s told me. 

Why wasn’t he with you? At the school? Did he leave on purpose? Did you send him away? What was he doing to allow himself to be so vulnerable?

I’m sorry. I wasn’t there to protect him. We promised we’d keep them safe, and we failed. I don’t know how we could have failed so hard.

He was a dumb kid. Clueless and daft and foolish. Too nervous to do anything of use, too distracted to be productive. He needed protecting. He needed someone to guide him and teach him, and help him harness the control that he struggled so greatly to manage. 

How could we have failed so terribly?

My captor told me what was done. They hunted him down. Drove knives into his skin until he started to scream, and then cut his vocal chords until they heard nothing but a pathetic whistle.

They botched the procedure. They could not even use him as a test specimen. Sean didn’t even die for _their_ benefit. He was murdered for no purpose.

How could I have failed so terribly?

It sickens me, more than I ever thought possible, that, as I stew here in this cell, more of our kind are dying. Senselessly or with malice. 

Who will protect them? Are you protecting them, Charles? I can’t imagine that you’re not doing your best to do so. There merely isn’t a reality that I can imagine where that isn’t so.

Erik.


	18. Letter 18 - July 7th, 1964

**UNSENT**

Charles,

I had a pleasant life, as a young child. We were a poor family in a poor town, but when one is so young, wealth does not matter. I can remember being happy.

My father worked in the factory in town. I can’t remember what exactly that factory produced, but he would leave before dawn and come home after dusk, smelling of must and something like ash. I would wake up to see him off some mornings, because if I did, my mother might let me eat his unfinished bread and jam. I can still vaguely taste the tart blackberries on the fresh, warm loaf.

Did you ever have homemade bread, Charles? Did your mother ever fill your home with the smell of velvety dough and sugar?

My mother was a wonderful cook, but at the time, I’d known nothing else. I thought that it was typical to eat three hearty meals three times per day, and even heartier ones during Shabbat. My sister and I would stuff ourselves full of challah, cholent, and boureka until our stomachs were near to bursting, and then my mother would gather us in front of the fireplace and read to us from the Torah.

Did your mother ever read to you, Charles? Did she ever enable your imagination to run wild as it spun tales of nonsense?

My parents had little money, but my sister and I felt rich. We always had gifts to open on each night of Chanukah, and wore new shoes on Yom Kippur. One year, on my birthday, my mother made me a black forest cake and let me pick out any sweet I wanted from the shop in town. When I arrived home, my father revealed the toy car he had built for me out of wood, with his own two hands.

Did your parents make you feel loved, Charles?

Raven told me of your childhoods. Cold landings, empty dining tables. Birthdays full of lavish gifts celebrated alone. Boarding schools and holidays away from home. Your mother too drunk to see you off to Oxford, and too ill to welcome you home when you arrived to be with her as she died.

I’m not sure how you managed. How you grew up to have a welcoming heart when the ones around you were always shut. As a child, I always thought I would be better off with a hefty wallet, but I know now that wealth is no replacement for love. 

It still isn’t. 

I’m sorry, Charles, that you never had what you deserved. You deserve freshly-baked bread and stories by firelight and the bubbling joy of waking up on your own birthday, knowing that wonders lie ahead.

When I manage my escape, I could treat you to that. We can mend our broken bonds over hot tea and games of chess. I know we can. I’m willing to do what I can to see it happen.

I hope you’re keeping well.

Erik.


	19. Letter 19 - March 20th, 1965

**UNSENT**

Charles,

I don’t know why or how it came about, but I am now certain that you have completely lost yourself in your silly pacifism. I find it egregious.

How could you sit idly by in that dusty, overlarge mansion of yours, hoping that you can love the world into changing? How can you tell your students that you care for their future when you do absolutely nothing to safeguard it? 

I’m sorry, for you and for the world, that you’ve allowed yourself to get lost in this plain nonsense.

It’s been a year-and-a-half since I’ve been held captive. The man who used to bring me the news is dead––he’d stupidly forgotten to remove his wedding ring before entering my cell. He died, and three others were wounded before they tranquilised me.

I don’t get the news, anymore. I haven’t for...nine months? Ten? It’s all beginning to run together, now. The world may be on fire, for all I know, but I’ll assume that it’s still plodding forward so long as I still get a tray of food pushed into my quarters each morning and evening. They’ve not forgotten yet.

I’m still here, and you’re still somewhere else. You haven’t fought hard enough to free your enslaved brothers and sisters, Charles. How could you exist in the world above while I continue to rot in this plastic hell? 

I pity you, and your weakness. And I can only hope that you try harder.

Erik.


	20. Letter 20 - September 3rd...or is it October 3rd? Or August 3rd? 1968

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

I’m sorry that I haven’t written you in a while. Days and weeks and months pass here with little or no indication, and, truth be told, I haven’t had much to say.

Let’s assume that you’re doing well, and that your school is thriving. How many students do you have, now? And staff? Have you been able to find faculty that you trust? I know that was something that was worrying you.

I can see it clearly. You’ve got dozens of children under your care, and you nurture them all, individually. They learn from you with confidence. They trust you. And, they should.

The world still has not made its peace with us, and you are not forcing it to. I can accept that, now. So long as you can make your impact. 

I wonder what you teach. Do they learn math and history and science and spelling? Do you read passages from Dickens and Diderot and ask your students what it all means? Maybe you stay up at night, grading essays, leaving personalised comments and critiques, because you want each of your students to know that you’ve taken what they’ve said with serious consideration. 

Me? I’ve not been up to much. I’ve become accustomed to occupying my hours with sleep or thinking. Sometimes, I doodle, sometimes, I doze. I’ve naught but time, stretching endlessly before me, but so staccatoed behind me. I grow amazed, sometimes, when I think about how much I’ve done in my life in so little time. 

Let’s assume, also, that I never see the light of day again. I wonder what will happen, when I finally die. Will they bury me? Burn me? I can ask them to ship me to you--I’m sure you’d appreciate receiving your old, forgotten friend in a wooden box on your doorstep. A final joke, by me.

We can both look forward to that laugh, together. I know I am.

Regards,  
Erik


	21. Letter 21 - I Think it’s Autumn 1969?

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

When I first arrived in this place, I vowed that I would do a mental rundown each day of the things I felt were important to remember. So, I, with great detail, envisioned you. Your hair, your eyes, your stature, your fingers and toes, the purse of your lips, the timbre of your voice.

For so long, I was able to keep a perfected view of you in my head, right down to the freckle, because I made a promise to myself that I would. I did the same for my family after we were separated when I was a child.

I’m sorry, Charles. I’ve failed. Just as I failed to cement my family’s visage, too.

I remember that you have blue eyes, and I know that they’re bright and clear, but mully when you’re angry or hurt. I remember that you have chestnut hair, and that you wore it with controlled looseness. And I remember that you’re smaller than I am, but have a bulk to you that isn’t exactly expected at first brush.

However, I only remember these things as facts. I cannot picture them, anymore. It’s been too long, and I’ve grown too lazy with my mental exercises to keep an accurate imprint in my brain.

When I hear you talk in my head, it’s with a voice that I know, objectively, to be too high for your own. You speak in a rich baritone, that conveys confidence and pride. It has none of the softness, or shyness that I hear now when I think of you. 

I imagine you as someone who stands on two solid legs, who runs at my side and thrashes at harsh ocean currents to save beleaguered men. And I know that this is not accurate, anymore. But I cannot envision anything else. 

What do you look like, now? It’s been a number of years. Has your skin begun to crease? Your body begun to soften? Are there streaks of grey in that dark head of hair, or are we still too young to be showing such evidence of age? I haven’t seen myself in nearly as long as I’ve seen you, so I can’t be sure, either. 

Perhaps if I could see you and hear you, just one more time, my mind would finally be able to purge this mottled pseudo-Charles I picture now. I swear it, I would hang on to every millimetre of you, surveil each cell in its entirety to firmly engrave you into my psyche. I promise, Charles, I would not let you fade as I already have, if given just one more chance. I know it to be a dream without hope, but I yearn so deeply for that chance.

Best wishes, Charles. The very best.  
Erik


	22. Letter 22 - Sometime in Either 1970 or 1971

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

I hung on for as long as I could. 

I tried my best. 

I did everything in my power to keep my head from caving in.

It’s been so long. So long since I’ve seen sunshine or rain, since I breathed fresh air, since I’ve spoken to someone face-to-face. 

It’s been long enough that I don’t even know what that’s like, Charles. I can’t imagine myself speaking to another human being, I’ve utterly forgotten what it’s like to feel wind and heat and biting chill. 

If I had the opportunity to experience these things, what would I do? Would I manage, or would I implode? Have my head and body still retained the ability to reabsorb these skills?

You tell me you loved being inside of my mind. You say that it’s organized and clean, and methodical. 

I’m sorry, Charles, but I think that I’ve lost it all.

I can picture an old storage closet, once neat and tidy, now strewn with dust and discard. Forgotten tools and files and things that were once useful, now bereft and steeped in chaos.

I don’t know if I can ever be that mind you once loved, the one in which you found solace and tranquility. If I ever find myself free of this place, I cannot fathom returning.

I’m sorry. Perhaps you’ve found another person whose mind brings you comfort, who can shelter you from the torrent of the world’s collective rage. I hope you have, Charles. 

Erik


	23. Letter 23 - January 26th, 1973

**UNSENT**

Charles,

The day has come. You, as I dreamt you would for so long, burst through the doors of my horrific cell, shucked propriety aside, and ripped me from the cruel jaws of this prison to freedom.

Hank, loyal as ever, helped you onto your lavish jet. Strapped you into your seat--you were too clumsy to do it yourself. And now, as Hank flies us over the Atlantic Ocean, I’m watching your grease-slick hair cover your face, sleeping off your drunken haze.

You sicken me.

And I’m sorry that you’ve wasted so much. 

You have every ability to do something positive to help our kind-- _anything_ positive--and what have you done? Squandered a decade away in your rotting manor? Drank your liver to oblivion? Rotted yourself so severely that your once-in-a-millennia gift can no longer have power?

So many are dead, Charles. Angel. Azazel. Emma. Banshee. Dead at the hands of humans you could have stopped. I’ve not seen the light of day in ten horrific years, and I’ve still done more for our kind than you have.

I’ve spent years, Charles. Years and years imagining how our reunion might unfold. Thousands upon thousands of scenarios played through my head. In most, you were angry with me. You punched me, kicked me, dragged me from the building and turned your back on me. In few, you gripped me by my lapels, pulled me toward you, and kissed me with a depth I’ve likely forgotten exists.

In none were you _this_. Selfish, whinging, too caught up in your own wants to give a damn about what’s happening in the world. As I write, I can smell the alcohol emanating from your filthy clothes, and your unwashed body smacks of neglect, narcissism, and self-pity.

You are nothing of the man I knew you to be. Or maybe you’ve always been this man, and I’ve merely spent the last decade dreaming of a person who never existed. In that case, I apologise for ever expecting anything from you. The fault, there, is mine.

Erik.


	24. Letter 24 - January 26th, 1973

Dear Charles,

You’re resting, again.

You’re hurting. I see that, now. 

We fell into step rather quickly, did we not? Me playing white and you black. Me outwitting you while you stumble and flub through your gameplay. Unpracticed, I see. Hank was never very good at chess.

I apologize for lashing out. I expected something I should not have. Years of isolation have driven me to a place I don’t recognize, and I can’t be certain what’s right and what was a mere figment of my imagination.

I do know, however, that you’re in pain. Immense pain. Much of it my doing. You miss your students. You miss your staff. You miss Raven. And, as I told you, I can understand why.

I vowed to her that I would never admit this to you, but, I cannot continue on with this burdening my back.

Your sister and I slept together, Charles. 

It was mostly mere impulse driven by physical compatibility and sheer availability, but also, there was _something_ between her and I that cannot be denied. A common goal, perhaps. Common ideas. 

I will not delve into details that you surely have no interest in hearing. I only want you to know this fact so that we can have our dirty secrets aired. 

And, I miss her, too.

I’m sorry, Charles. I’m sorry that you’ve grown so angry, so hurt. I’m sorry that the world became too painful for you to bear. 

If we do this right, according to the hairy one, we may be able to salvage ourselves, after all. Spare us from a world that terrifies even you into action.

Hank has just indicated that we’ll be landing in Paris in a few moments, so I’ll stop here.

We’ll talk soon.  
Erik


	25. Letter 25 - January 27th, 1973

Dear Charles, 

By the time you wake and read this, I’ll be long gone. I contemplated staying with you in your room until you awoke, but if my memories of you are correct, your waking hours trend closer to afternoon than to morning, I can’t bear to squander even another day inside.

And, truth be told, I’d rather not witness your morning injection.

Apologies for leaving you alone.

What happened in this room between us last night was something that I didn’t think I’d ever get to experience again. It was different than I imagined--your anger really...energizes you. I feel that I met a side of you that I did not expect to meet, and yet, at the same time, there was a lot that felt achingly familiar. I wonder if you feel the same.

Even without your abilities, you’re beautiful, Charles. Your rage and hurt and hunger, while unfortunate, bring a bestial quality out of you that entices and almost frightens. I don’t say this to be crass or overly forward, but I sensed a lot of self-anger and doubt from you last night. I want you to know that you’re still as beautiful as ever.

Looks, of course, matter little. We used to laugh about your vanity, because we knew how silly it was to be so overly concerned with something so little as physical appearance.

However, my years spent in isolation have helped me appreciate beauty, just for the sake of being beautiful. While you obviously have a larger purpose than to merely please the eye, I’d be remiss if I allowed you to go about thinking of yourself as anything other than beautiful.

I’ll be in the cafe in the hotel lobby, if you want to join me. It’s been a long, long while since I’ve had a decent cup of coffee, and I’m very much looking forward to enjoying that in the sun.

Until then,  
Erik


	26. Letter 26 - January 29th, 1973

Dear Charles,

For the second time in my life, I write to you as a preemptive apology for something I know will anger you.

Raven’s DNA has been collected already. They have what they need.

It is up to me, now, to fix what’s been broken. 

You will not like it.

And, I am sorry.

Erik


	27. Letter 27 - February 2, 1973

Dear Charles,

Now, I know, firmly, that there is no way for you and I to reconcile our differences. What may have been an opportunity has turned into a cemented reality that we will never, ever, be able to coexist peacefully.

I will learn to accept this, in due time.

While we may have saved ourselves from a certain misery in the future, there is no way of knowing, unless we get another surprise visitor from years beyond, what sort of course we have set for our kind. I can only hope that it allows for our peace.

I apologise, once more, for putting you in danger. Had I known that you could have been crushed by the force of the falling debris, I can’t say that I would have acted the same. While I do firmly feel that I was doing what needed to be done, it was never my intention to put you in harm’s way more than I already have.

It is something, evidently, that I will always do, if you’re near. Danger and chaos follow me, or perhaps I invite them in. In any case, I can accept that it is in your best interest that you and I remain apart.

My more immediate hope, for you, is that you’ve awoken, to an extent. It was admittedly painful to see you in such a broken state, so now that you’ve caught a glimpse of what tomorrow may hold, maybe that fire will return to your eyes, that tenacity to your bones.

The world deserves that, Charles. This and the next and the next after generation of mutants deserves to have your leadership and guidance. You, more than any other I have ever met, have the ability to create a world that edges upon peace.

Be well, Charles.  
Erik


	28. Letter 28 - September 9th, 1974

Dear Charles,

It’s been awhile since I’ve written. I wanted to give you space to collect yourself, and I also needed my own. 

I can’t tell you where I’m writing from--I’ve little trust in the governments of the world, and so long as postal services are government outfits, I’ll have to keep details of my life vague.

This morning, in the newspaper, I read a story about the only school in the world exclusively catered to mutantkind. Apparently, the first week of classes went well, and the headmaster proudly reported that he’s got a student body of 13 and four teachers among his ranks. The article was accompanied by a photo of said headmaster, beaming in front of a chalkboard, the optimism emanating from his entire form. 

I’m not sure if I can adequately express how much joy this brought me, Charles. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt a brush of hope like that. And after all that has happened between us, I doubt that my remote support will push wind into your sails, but I wanted to express my pride nonetheless.

You’re doing a wonderful thing. You’re using your gifts and talents to do what you’re meant to do. And finally, at long last, our kind has an impactful leader to look toward for guidance.

I have full confidence that your school will grow as the years pass, and more children find themselves in need of acceptance rather than camouflage. And I know that you’ll treat them well. 

I am sorry that I can’t visit to see the fruits of your labor. It would be more than a pleasure to see your dream manifest before your eyes.

All the best,  
Erik


	29. Letter 29 - November 6th, 1975

**UNSENT**

Hello, Charles,

By now, I should be well accustomed to life’s twists and turns, but I seem to still find myself knocked sideways every so often, regardless.

I figured that I would live a life of solitude, either on the run or somewhere remote. I planned to keep to myself, spare our kind any further ill grace of my doing. And, while pursuing that simplicity, things became infinitely more complex.

I met a woman, Charles. 

She’s lovely. Intelligent, strong, a sharp sense of humor. Her ease with words resembles yours and her clear-headedness can’t be farther away. She’s patient, too. But, she doesn’t allow for what she calls “melancholic mood swings for no good reason.” Patient, but not passive.

She’s a wonderful partner. Independent, honest, supportive. And, she brings out something good in me, too. 

Where you ignite a flame within my bones, she’s spread her warmth more slowly and evenly. And now, I’m wrapped in the cocoon of a life softer than I’d ever thought possible. Softness, as it turns out, is nice. Foreign to me, but I believe that I could grow accustomed to it.

I have full confidence that your life is safer and easier without me in it, and I’m beginning to accept that mine is the same. And I’m sorry that this is the case.

You deserve softness and ease, too. I’m not sure that I can imagine you settling fully into a quiet, obscure life, but I’d like to think that you’re at least enjoying the stresses that come with your lifestyle. Good stresses affect differently than painful ones.

May you find someone like I have, who complements you well. 

All the best,  
Erik


	30. Letter 30 - March 7th, 1976

**UNSENT**

Charles,

Sometimes, it’s shocking to look at the calendar and realise how quickly time has passed. And at other times, it’s shocking to realise how slowly it’s crept by, too.

It has been three years since you and I last spoke, and 14 years since we first met. In that decade-and-a-half, I feel like I’ve lived several, rather than one. 

First is the life that you and I discovered together. Those early, hopeful days when we had but a nucleus of an idea and an unknown future stretched ahead. I think of chess and scotch and midnights and making love. I think of optimistic uncertainty, tantalizing excitement, and the intense burn of passion.

Next is the life I lead after we parted ways in Cuba. When my mind was clear and my goals were set, and I was willing to do anything at all to reach them. Raven, of course, plays a pivotal role in that life. She and I felt that we were forging a new future, one which could complement and enable yours. Sometimes, I yearn to be the man I was then.

And then came the confinement.

And now, I feel as I am transitioning between a fourth and a fifth life, wherein I’m leaving behind a larger part of who I’ve been for many years and greeting a new man.

I asked Magda to marry me. And she said that she would.

I will be a good partner to her and her to me. We ground each other. I can foresee pleasant days ahead as her husband and am looking forward to experiencing it at her side.

Alas, Charles, as true as this all may be, I still cannot pry from my being the love I hold for you.

In all of these lifetimes, you have been a constant, even though you’ve been physically distant far more than you haven’t. In each phase, my actions and thoughts and intentions always found their way back to you. My love for you burns like a forge in the smithy of my soul, Charles, and I don’t think the heaviest of storms will ever stop its smolder.

I’d no idea that love so divergent could coexist in the same body, especially mine. My love for Magda and the life we will share blossoms alongside the completely separate and entirely different the love that bleeds for you.

And I’m sorry, Charles. There is always pity for the possessor of unrequited love, but why is there none for the recipient? You deserve better than to be loved by me, to be scrutinised in every thought I have and action I perform. 

My love for you is unfair, because it stings like a touch of steel baking in the summer sun. It’s not the love you asked me to have, nor is it any reparation for the damage I’ve caused. You deserve better, and so does Magda. You both deserve more than what I am offering. 

I can only be grateful that I’ve been so lucky to have, or have had, you both.

Be well, Charles.  
Erik


	31. Letter 31 - December 30th, 1976

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

Today, I write to you a day into the next life I lead. Currently, there is a baby asleep on my shoulder. 

My baby. 

I’m a father, Charles. 

She’s tiny. More minuscule than I thought possible for a human being. And while Magda insists that she’s got my nose and mouth, she still looks a bit like a squashed worm, if I’m to be frank. I’m told that this is normal for a two-day-old child, but even if it wasn’t, I’d still find her to be the most perfect thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

You might find it an amusing mental image--me, changing a diaper, feeding out of a bottle, rocking to sleep. Even _I_ find it somewhat amusing, but more incredible as to how natural it all feels. 

I am everything, to this child. Keeping her safe is now the sole purpose of my life, and I will devote myself entirely to that task. 

We’ve decided to call her Nina, for no other reason than we both think it a nice name. 

I wish you could meet her, Charles. I’m very sorry that you can’t.

Love,  
Erik


	32. Letter 32 - October 24th, 1979

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last written to you--I’m finding myself quite occupied, these days. Rearing a child is heady work, and I’ve been steeped in activities dedicated solely to her, these past few years.

But, I’ve been thinking about you quite a bit as of late. My daughter is growing quickly, and every time she amazes me with a new milestone, my thoughts flit back to you. When she spoke her first word, “jeż” (which is puppy in her native tongue), I could only imagine how delightful you might find it that a child so young is advancing at a pace as she is.

I’m not even sure that you like young children, but I assume that you do. You always delight in watching people learn and absorb the world around them, and in her first few years, this is all Nina has done.

Magda is a wonderful person with whom to share these experiences. She swells with pride and happiness at every step in Nina’s development, and my own heart balloons to see this unfold before my eyes. We make a good team and our daughter is happy, and really, this is a life I never thought was possible.

But because my soul likes to upset itself by focusing on things it cannot have, I always, _always_ think of you.

I imagine what it would be like with you at my side instead. How you and I would raise a child together. The disagreements we’d have over discipline, the joys we’d share as we watch her grow and thrive. I think, despite our erratic history, we would do well, together. Yes, we’d argue and fight and disagree, but our love for our child would overpower.

I’m sorry that we cannot have this life together, Charles. In another universe or lifetime it might be so. In this one, it seems, we are not so fortunate. You have your own collection of children at this point, anyway. I don’t know if caring for an army of other peoples’ children is quite the same, but, knowing you, you’ve begun to love them like your own.

I do wish you could see her. She amazes me more every single day.

Wishing you well,

Erik


	33. Letter 33 - July 1st, 1981

**UNSENT**

Dear Charles,

Part of me hoped that my daughter inherited none of my mutant DNA. For her safety and ease in the world, I halfway wished that she was as human as human can be.

I’m sure that news shocks you. It shocks me, too.

This morning, partial-wishes were shattered as the other half of that equation soared with pride. As I prepared breakfast, Nina, quite casually, told me that the squirrels who live in the tree in our back garden prefer when I prepare latkes over eggs. Thinking her observation little more than a childish musing, I humored her, asking her of the squirrels’ other preferences and how their society functions.

An hour later, after a long and very detailed conversation with her, it was apparent to me that there was no imaginative farce whatsoever. 

My daughter, Charles, can truly communicate with the squirrels.

I’m not sure if her ability extends beyond rodents, but, knowing what I know about mutation, I imagine that it does. She’s too young to articulately explain herself to me, and now I sit here, reeling, trying to surmise a plan for her future.

I’m sorry that you and I are no longer in touch, Charles. Nina would benefit immensely from your tutelage--her mutation, it seems, is far closer to yours than it is mine. Perhaps she’ll grow into larger exercises of telepathy, communicating with humans as well as animals. Who’s to say she couldn’t? 

I’ve no idea how to teach a telepath. Telepathy, while an incredible gift, comes with a lot of collateral. I shudder to think of my sweet, innocent daughter being privy to the minds of bigots, murderers, and harborers of dark and evil. She needs someone to teach her, Charles, and that person should be you. I’m sorry, for both of you, that I spoiled any chance of that being so.

All the best,  
Erik


	34. Letter 34 - May 9th, 1983

Charles,

I write this letter with blood on my hands.

I’d promised to seek peace. To cease mayhem. 

Peace was never an option, no matter how badly we both wanted it.

I’m sorry.

Erik.


	35. Letter 35 - May 12th, 1983

**UNSENT**

Charles,

I didn’t want to hurt you--

This is the only way to ensure that we never lose another of our kind, and it torments me that you’re suffering for it--

~~I’ve lost three families already and I refuse to lose another.~~

I have failed, so many times, to protect the ones I love, and I will not fail again due to my own inaction--

~~I tried not to look at Hank, Alex, and Raven as I took you today. I know that they think me a monster, and they’re right in doing so, but for the greater good of our kind--~~

I’m sorry, Charles.

Erik


	36. Letter 36 - May 19th, 1983

Dear Charles,

When I think over our past week, I, once again, find myself stunned by how many things can change in such a short period of time.

Within the last ten days, my life has been shredded into unrecognisable pieces three separate times. I thought I would be better accustomed to change, but I’m still a man full of weaknesses. A man run by rage and mistrust, as you say.

I’m sorry, Charles. For so many things. For Alex, for your school. For soiling your cashmere sweater with my snot and tears, for keeping you up for three days solid with my tearful crooning.

I’m sorry that I started to make love with you, and then had to stop before we could finish for my own melancholy. You say that you don’t care, and I even believe you that you don’t, but I’m still sorry.

I’m sorry that it took a tragedy of this calibre to reunite us once more, and sorry that so many years were lost without contact.

And I’m sorry, Charles, that I’d forgotten that you, too, are my family. I’ll try not to forget again.

Thank you, as well, for letting me stay, at least for a little while. I promise, when I leave, your school will be stronger and sturdier than it ever was.

With love,  
Erik


	37. Letter 37 - July 10th, 1983

Dear Charles,

It’s somewhat difficult to write this letter, as a horrific glare from the sun keeps stinging my eyes. I fear I will go blind if I allow this glare to continue, but it is a letter that I must write in order to beg for your forgiveness.

The glare, of course, stems from the refraction of the sun off of your newly-shiny head, and no matter where I move, the painful rays seem to follow. 

While you, indeed, have a lovely, lovely head, I know how much you enjoyed your flowing locks of hair. Your vanity, old friend, is as powerful as ever, and I can only begin to imagine how difficult you’re adjusting to life as a ~~cueball~~ distinguished-looking gent with no hair.

And, let’s not forget to think about things positively! Imagine all of the time you’ll save in the shower without a mane to shampoo and condition every morning. You probably feel lighter, and the weather will feel more accurate to you, as your surface area of exposed skin has greatly increased. The benefits, Charles, are astounding.

I do apologise, however, for serving as a direct cause of your recent loss. I rather think Hank deserves some of the blame for having no cure or serum to stimulate your follicles into growth once more, but trying to pin things on Hank has never worked well in my favor, with you. For what it’s worth, Charles, I’m a big supporter of your new look. 

But, to further express my remorse, I’ve made you a hard-boiled egg for breakfast and have purchased you some sunscreen. Please accept my gifts as a gesture of friendship and care--and use the sunscreen before going out. I’ve noticed that your head has been looking a touch pink.

I hope this bald apology has helped our friendship out of this rather hairy patch. One day, may we look back at this tangle and comb through our memories with strands of joy.

Yours hairily,  
Erik


	38. Letter 38 - July 16th, 1983

Dear Charles,

I don’t have to be a telepath to feel your anger emanating from a great distance. I think every inhabitant of this zip code is aware that you’re upset with me, in fact.

I apologise for getting angry with you, too. I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you. For some reason, when it comes to you, my emotions often get the better of my judgment and I say things that I don’t necessarily mean to say.

However, despite my reaction, my mindset is still the same: I did not need to know that Peter is my son.

What good does it do, Charles? He’s well grown now, his own person. 

I’ve already failed to protect one of my children, and there’s no need for me to bring danger to another. Especially to one who seems to find mischief of his own. Put the two of us together and disaster is sure to strike.

I regret growing angry with you, but I defend myself nonetheless. He does not need me to be his father now. And anyway, if he even wanted a father, he has you.

Erik.


	39. Letter 39 - July 23rd, 1983

Dear Charles,

You’ve offered to let me stay. Told me that I will always have a home here. Allowed pride to step aside to salvage our bond.

For a moment, I considered staying. Assimilating into the lifestyle you’ve enabled here, assisted you where I can while rebuilding myself from the ashes of what’s left of me.

I’m sorry, dear friend, but I cannot.

Your students have you and Raven, now. Your X-Men. Still students rather than soldiers, but mutants ready to fight for our kind and use their gifts for good. And I’m excited to see all that they will accomplish under your guidance. I see the passion in your eyes and the promise in your students. The world will be a far better place on this trajectory, and I have full confidence in your ability to lead the charge.

And for how much I would like to stay and sleep another decade away in your bed with you, it’s become apparent to me that I have to continue to try and chart my own course. I’m sorry, Charles, but your path, still, is not my path.

You asked me last night where else I’d go, and I didn’t have an answer. I still don’t. I’m not sure where I’ll go or what I’ll do, but I strongly feel that I’ve still more work to do before I can rest with ease. Our kind still needs warriors and advocates, and my skill sets are better suited on the front lines rather than behind a schoolteacher’s desk.

This time, however, we part on optimistic terms. I’ll consider that a victory, given our track record. One day, we may not have to separate, but until that day comes, I can only hope that we remain in decent standing, with each other.

The best of luck to you, Charles. 

With love,  
Erik


	40. Letter 40 - July 31st, 1983

Dear Charles,

By now, you may have realised that a rather lovely black Mercedes 380 is missing from your garage. It didn’t have your hand controls built-in, so I have to assume that it’s not a car you drove often. I did mean to ask, but our goodbye was already rather weighty, and I didn’t want to tarnish the bittersweet parting with a materialistic request for one (out of your two bloody dozen) cars.

I didn’t take the vehicle for naught, Charles! I assure you–I only care about functionality and furthering our success. I’ve decided to restart what you and I began two decades ago and travel about the country in search of mutants in need. 

I plan to send you any mutant who I feel will benefit and thrive at your school. Whether they merely attend courses or train with your X-Men is their choice and yours, but I think, for the time being, my skills are best suited toward finding and sorting our kind. 

I considered taking your old van, but I expect that you’ll need it on occasion to transport students from place to place, and I also considered the Honda. However, the brand-new, shiny Mercedes 380 with leather interiors and four-wheel drive, I believe will employ a stronger ethos, which is needed in this sort of work.

Again, I apologise for taking the very expensive vehicle without your express permission, but I am equally confident in my assumption that you will not miss it.

Until next time,  
Erik


	41. Letter 41 - September 14th, 1983

Dear Charles,

By now, I expect you have become acquainted with your newest student, John. He and I got to know each other well during the few days he spent with me--and my arm and leg are still recovering from second degree burns, courtesy of him.

Well in advance, I would like to apologise for the damage that this mess of a mutant will inevitably cause you.

I had my reservations about sending him your way. Initially, I had decided that he was far too dangerous to allow near your students and that he would be better suited with me until he learned to control himself with a bit more practice. However, it became immediately apparent that he and I are less than compatible traveling companions, and after a mysterious hotel fire in Dallas, Texas, I made the decision to turn him over to your care.

Now, I know what you’re thinking; how could I be so selfish and reckless?! How could I justify sending an unhinged pyromaniac with an anger disorder to your peaceful little haven? But, old friend, I sent him with only humility in mind, as you are far better suited to help this young man than I am. Additionally, now that ~~Storm~~ Ororo has made a home of your school as well, she can assuredly quench any fire before it spreads too wildly with her remarkable gifts.

To add to this, your Jean is well capable of practicing building construction. I’m utterly certain that she will be able to patch any damage without much effort. In that way, Charles, I’m helping. Your students will have more opportunities to apply their gifts to real world situations. I’ll assume that you’ve thanked me, and in that case, you’re most certainly welcome. 

~~Until next time,  
Erik~~


	42. Letter 42 - February 20th, 1984

Dear Charles,

I can envision you with immense clarity right now; you’re in ~~our~~ your bed, nursing a horrific headache and grumbling about how you’re always the one called in to clean up my messes, or something of that nature. Perhaps you’re even watching television or reading the newspaper, grimacing at the President of the United States’ black eye.

Before you throw this letter away in frustration, let me tell you that I am indeed sorry that you had to wipe the collective memory of the world in order to save me from legal repercussions. I can only begin to imagine how painful that was for you to do, and the fact that you did so for my benefit leaves me eternally grateful.

Regardless, I firmly believe that I did the world a favour by socking Ronald Reagan on live television.

The man is utterly repulsive, Charles. You know as well as I do how he feels about our kind, and I simply could not stand to listen to the coot profess family values and endorse wealthy caucasian interests. In fact, I can’t think of a more deserving recipient of a right hook than Ronald Reagan, and I cannot truthfully say that I regret fracturing his cheekbone in front of the entirety of this country.

Had I your gift, old friend, I’d make the man forget who he is, forcing his swift impeachment. His baboon of a second-in-command is hardly better, but he at least doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a stuffed pig in an overlarge suit. 

Since I don’t have your gift, however, I must do what I can to further the rights and recognition of our race. 

I do apologise for the inconvenience this has caused you. Out of respect and care, I’ll do my best to refrain from any additional presidential assault. I can’t make any promises, though.

Yours thankfully,  
Erik


	43. Letter 43 - October 9th, 1985

Dear Charles,

I’m certain that you’ve heard by now. Last week, the US Government officially granted our kind a homeland, a sovereign state where we can be free. My brothers and sisters are now looking to me to guide them in this new phase of our history.

We’ve fought long and hard for this, Charles. You and I both have, on different paths and with different methods. I know that this is not your idea of “peaceful coexistence,” but it is the most peace I think I can find in this world of ours.

Organizing is hard work. I don’t think I’d ever fully grasped how difficult this process would be. I know you’ve created a society of your own, of sorts, so I’d imagine that you’re far more familiar with the work that it all entails.

Our first structures are complete. Currently, we’re relying on food rations from various governments, but we’ll soon be growing our own food and generating our own energy. I’ve a good few mutants who will be extremely helpful in those respects, but should they ever find a reason to leave Genosha, it’s important that we retain self-sufficiency.

This is an incredible opportunity, Charles. To create a society by and for our kind. It’s nearly too incredible to imagine it being real. 

And I’ll let that be a segue into the portion of the letter that I’ve been dreading to write.

This land is more than just land, Charles. It’s the promise of freedom and autonomy. I support you and your quest toward achieving a world where humans and mutants can intermingle, but it’s certain that such a world cannot and will not include me.

To safeguard ~~our~~ my people, I’ve decided that it is in our best interests if Genosha remains as isolated as possible from the rest of the world. We will not be receiving news, post, supplies, or goods from any other nation. I’ve asked our current inhabitants to keep contact with their peers elsewhere on the planet to a minimum. It’s not a mandate that I plan on enforcing with any sort of stringency, but we have all reached a fair agreement that we will be safest and most prosperous if we keep to ourselves.

In less words, old friend, this is another goodbye. For my safety and the safety of my new neighbours, I will not be writing for a good while. I’ve much to focus on, anyway, and so do you. In my ideal world, it would be you at my side, helping me construct our utopia. I still believe that we would make a good team, if aligned on the same goal. And while I’m not selfish enough to believe that you would ever give up your own dream to assist me with mine, I can’t help but yearn for it to be so.

And I’m sorry, too. I wish it did not have to be this way, but I see no other option. Perhaps in the future, when we need not remain so isolated, we may reunite once more. Until then, I desire only the best for you.

Love,  
Erik


	44. Letter 44 - April 21st, 1992

Charles,

I’ve many doubts that you’ll receive this in a timely manner, but I sit here, seething and disappointed, as _Hank_ sleeps on my floor.

He’s brought with him a collection of newspapers and magazines to help catch me up regarding current events. You, beaming as you shake hands with the President of the United States. You, beaming, as you attend some sort of smarmy gala full of people who once vowed to hunt you down. You on the cover of Time Magazine, Forbes, the Washington Post, and all sorts of media singing your praises for “bridging the gaps between human and mutantkind.”

That would be perfectly acceptable--I always figured that your path would take you this way--had you not wagered the lives of your family in exchange.

I should have known when Jean arrived on my doorstep yesterday, flanked by a pair of helicopters on her tail. She wouldn’t have come to me for help had she even been able to trust you remotely. Furthermore, I’m not typically inclined to believe Hank McCoy’s stance on things, but if he, of all people, has come all this way to recruit my help, the situation must be dire.

I’m sorry that you’ve grown into something so unrecognizable from yourself.

You’ve let fame and power and photo ops with important people cloud your judgment, Charles. We’ve always known that your ego was large, but I never expected what damage it could cause when left completely unchecked.

While I, following your decades of pleas, finally sought peace, you sought power. I sought serenity, you created rage.

I have to wonder how you’re reasoning you’re way out of this one. It makes me seethe, to think of all the times you begged me to consider the collateral damage, whether success was worth the lives of innocents. And to think that you’ve allowed your own sister to fall victim to your narcissism.

Jean must be stopped. You’ve no idea the pain it causes me to do this (at _Hank’s_ side, no less). But, I can’t let our kind come to further harm.

Erik.


	45. Letter 45 - May 6th, 1992

Dear Charles,

I hope that you’ve recovered well. I expect that Hank and the rest of your X-Men have taken good care of you since returning home, bitter as it was. 

Prior to returning to Genosha, Storm asked me if she could keep in contact, and while I had my reservations, I figured that it might be beneficial to maintain some correspondence. 

In that spirit, I thought I’d write to you, too, for old time’s sake. Raven is the one who started me on this habit of writing you when I want to gain your favour, and I think she would be pleased to know I’ve continued to follow her advice after so many years.

I’m sorry, Charles, truly. ~~I blame Hank, as he’s the one who left out key details and cajoled me into seeking vengeance~~. I shouldn’t have made so many rash assumptions about your intentions and actions, and while I still believe your ego to be your biggest downfall at the moment, I understand why you did what you did. 

You cared for Jean like your own child. I would have done the same for my own daughter, but I _haven’t_ done the same for my son, so in the end, you’re a far better parent than I am.

I’m sorry that she’s gone, that we couldn’t protect her, in the end. I know how much you loved her. For what it’s worth, I did, too.

Storm has let me know that you’ve announced your retirement as headmaster, abdicating the title to Hank. While I can think of (several) better replacements, I hope that Hank takes the same care with your students as you did. They still deserve that. 

But, I have to wonder what you’ll do with all of your time, now. I’m eager to see, Charles. Very eager.

All the best,  
Erik


	46. Letter 46 - June 8th, 1992

Dear Charles,

It is with a bittersweet heart that I write you, this evening. 

You’re as stunning as ever, lying naked in ~~my~~ our bed. Through the windows, the moonlight is illuminating your body, much like it did so many years ago on the night before we parted ways in Cuba.

Unlike then, however, your body is thick with muscle. There are no chestnut locks flowing languidly across the pillows, and your legs no longer flex and twitch as you dream. And rather than a peaceful rest to your face, you wear your stress and discomfort like a blanket.

These past several days have been like something out of a dream, for me. Bringing you to Genosha, settling you into a home that we will share. I’m sure you’ve already dug it out of my head, but I’ve imagined a scenario like this for a large majority of my life, now. I don’t think my mind has fully wrapped itself around the idea that, after years of spreading apart, you and I finally have the chance to be together.

Throughout all of our lows, I, perhaps foolishly, held onto the faith that you and I could still find each other like this. In many ways, we’re still the same men that met each other underwater three decades ago. Considerable changes have come, of course, but each time you and I are reunited, we seem to fall into step.

And yet, even through the joy of togetherness, I can feel your sorrow, Charles. I appreciate how massive of a change this is for you. Your school is all you’ve known for nearly 20 years, and to make the switch from a life as a posh headmaster to life as a Genoshan citizen is not easy.

You tell me you’re happy and that you’re confident that you made the right choice, in coming with me. I believe you, too. You’ve never been great at lying directly to my face. But you’re also full of melancholy, and that’s okay, Charles. I learned from someone long ago that it’s okay to mourn what’s been lost while looking toward what there is to gain.

My heart is heavy for you. I’m sorry that the world isn’t the place that you wanted it to be. One day, I hope that it reaches that point. Until it does, may you and I live in comfort and our own version of peace. Together.

Love,  
Erik


	47. Letter 47 - September 14th, 1992

Charles,

Since you haven’t so much as paid me a single passing glance since yesterday--which, I admit, is impressive given that we are sharing a 200 square foot hut--I figured that your preferred mode of apologetic communication may reach you best.

I apologise for calling you a “stuffed elitist suckling from a silver spoon,” even in jest. I hope you know that I am fully aware of how hard you’ve worked for everything you built and how much I admire you. I did not know that this was still a sore spot, between you and I. I regret that I hurt your feelings.

However, my friend, you must understand where I’m coming from, too. Our Genoshan school board is a democratically-elected body, and the decisions they make are, in theory, representative of the People. I fully respect that you undoubtedly have more experience running educational institutions than anyone else on this island, and I am also certain that your ideas come with good intentions. 

Even so, Charles, you can’t expect that the board will, by default, defer to your experience. Genosha is not Westchester, I’m afraid. Neither you nor I have the authority to alter any curriculums or processes unless the board votes for such things. I appreciate that this is a big change for you, and I know that you only want to help, but you are not winning any favour among our people by insisting.

I know that you’re retired now, but, if you were to run for a seat on the school board next January, you will have my endorsement. Or, maybe, take up a teaching position. I think that you would enjoy it and that the children of Genosha would benefit from your participation. Telepathy isn’t _my_ strong suit, but it needn’t be for me to know how the idleness of your days are eating at you. If I’ve learned anything from living here, it’s that you’re fully capable of forging your own path. 

Now, will you please stop ignoring me? It’s not the first time I’ve shared a bed with a man who doesn’t want to speak to me, but I would really like it to be my last, Schatz.

I’ve also made potato soup, extra cheesy for you. As a gesture of good faith.

With all my love,  
Erik


	48. Letter 48 - January 14th, 1993

My Dear Charles,

Firstly, congratulations on your well-earned job offer. As I’ve said before, the Genoshan school system is beyond lucky to have you among its educators. You’re going to be brilliant.

I can see, though, how bittersweet the victory is for you. Your soft tears on my shoulder this evening reminded me that you still haven’t fully left _your_ school behind.

I’m so sorry, Schatz, that you miss your students like this. And I know that they must miss you, too. Their charismatic professor with the bad jokes and the worse fashion sense, who everyone knew could be relied upon in times of trouble. With Hank at the helm, things _certainly_ are different over there, and I can only guess that your absence is felt across the whole community.

We’ve spoken before about this nation’s isolation, and how we agree that remaining remote is in our best interest. However, given your connection to the mutant communities in other areas of the world, I don’t think we will be compromising security _too_ greatly if we extend a degree of diplomacy to such places. As the elected head of state, I hereby nominate you, Dr, Charles Xavier, to be the ambassador to the mutant communities within the United States, including to the students and staff of the Jean Grey School of Higher Learning.

Your duties as the sole ambassador to this region will entail that you travel often and visit with the people. To show my commitment to the Genoshan partnership with these communities, I will accompany you, from time to time. I’ve heard that the school has a spare bedroom or two that we might be allowed to stay in while visiting.

If this is something that interests you, Dr. Xavier, please notify me at once and I will begin making arrangements for your first diplomatic visit. Perhaps they will offer a young teleporter to aid our travels.

I look forward to hearing your response, and am eager to embark on this new chapter in Genoshan international relations, at your side.

Yours Truly,  
Erik M. Lehnsherr, Head of the Genoshan State


	49. Letter 49 - April 12th, 1993

Dear Charles,

I’m not sure whether you’re losing your wits or if your late nights in your classroom are hampering your memory, but it seems that you’ve forgotten that the weather, in fact, cannot be controlled under my powers. Storm is a bit better equipped for such things, but, given your shortness with me over recently, I can only assume that you’ve forgotten exactly what I can and can’t manipulate.

Regardless, I know that you’re angry and I do not like seeing you angry, so let me apologise, personally, that the Genoshan weather is not to your liking. I am so, so sorry that it has rained for the past fourteen days straight (even though this climate pattern is entirely typical and I have absolutely no control over what does or does not fall from the clouds). When you awoke this morning and glared at me upon realising that another stormy day was abound (through no fault of my own), I could only hope that you will forgive me for such egregious acts as being unable to manipulate the planet’s natural weather patterns.

If I were an argumentative man, I would remind you of the temperamentality of New York’s weather and ask you to recall the snow in September and heat wave in March, or even point out that, while staying one June, it rained every single day for three-and-a-half weeks while Storm was away.

However, I am not an argumentative man, so I will not pester you with such factual reminders or aim to convince you of your irrationality. No, I am a sweet and accommodating partner who will nobly take the blame for something completely beyond my control.

To further demonstrate my remorse, I have made you tomato soup and warm bread. May my conciliatory words and culinary bribery convince you of my utmost shame at my failure to halt the atmospheric inevitabilities. 

Yours most sorrowfully,  
Erik Lehnsherr  
(Magneto, not Storm)


	50. Letter 50 - July 29th, 1993

Dearest Charles,

While your cold shoulders can oftentimes be unnecessarily frosty, I accept with full humility that your annoyance with me is...justified, at the moment. Now that we’re in such close proximity once more, even the smallest feuds between you and I can grate at my resolve, and in an effort to preserve the peace and calm that we have established on this island, I will fall on my sword with an admission of fault.

I am sorry, truly, that I abused the authority that my office provides. And that I made the consumption of tea illegal. Solely to spite you.

In my defence, your excessive tea drinking habit has cost us precious time, Charles! I have been late to over a dozen meetings since you’ve arrived here, all because we cannot leave our home unless you have a perfectly steeped mug of tea in tow. As the Head of State, it is highly unprofessional to arrive tardy to events, especially when my only excuse is that my partner’s first pot of Kenya Black steeped too long and he was forced to brew another.

But, that is beside the point--I have issued an executive order to reinstate the legality of tea consumption on Genosha, and have even procured a large box of English breakfast tea, straight from your ancestral home. 

Additionally, I promise to never legislate to suit my personal needs regarding you again. You have my word in writing, now. 

Yours truly,  
Erik


	51. Letter 51 - September 1st, 1993

Charles,

When I told you to look in my trunk for that book, I’d completely forgotten that I keep all of my unsent letters to you in the same space. 

I wasn’t hiding them from you purposely, Charles. And I am so very sorry that you had to find them that way. 

You’re angry with me. I can understand why you are. These letters reveal a lot of specificities of our past that I’d rather like to forget. 

Yes, Charles, I loved you back in 1962. I wrote that dewy-eyed note to you with every intention of delivering it, but when it came time to slide deposit it on your desk, my fear got the better of me. It’s no use to wonder what may have been different had I not hidden from you, but I know that your mind is likely already in that place. I’m sorry. 

The letters I wrote you from prison transported me back to that time, when I could only imagine you ephemerally, fantasising about a day when you’d burst in to rescue me. The pressure I put on you, of course, was unfair, and I will not make excuses other than I was in need of some sliver of hope to pull me through the years.

And then I can viscerally remember my fury with you on our first plane to Paris. How hurt and broken you were, how fragile I was. Reading those words made me feel ill tonight, because I can keenly and unguardedly feel what I felt at that time. To know that I harbored such malice toward you, Charles, is shameful. And I am incredibly sorry that I ever wrote such horrid things.

However, you did find my tales of Nina. And I can only say that I’m sorry that I didn’t share more of her with you. She was a wonder. You would love her, and she would love you. My biggest regret, after all these years, is that you two never had the opportunity to meet.

You’ve learned more about me this evening than I’d ever intended to let you find on your own, and I can imagine that you feel overwhelmed and hurt by many of the things that were said.

If there is any solace, Charles, I saved them for a reason. Since that first letter I wrote you 31 years ago in which, I believe, I apologised for consuming my own birthday cookies, I knew that you would retain a special place in my life, no matter where it took me. Keeping them with me, through imprisonment and domesticity and life on the run, always kept me tied, even slightly, to you. And I could not bear to part with you, even through the darkest of moments.

In a way, I feel as if this was meant to happen. Now, you have a full and robust understanding of how I feel and have felt about you. You’re a logical, intelligent man, so you’re fully aware that love isn’t always romantic. Love is ugly, love is cruel, love is chilly, and love is searing. And even through all of those darknesses, you and I have still emerged in the light, together.

I understand if you need a moment to process. You’ve learned a lot, about me, today. When you’re ready, Schatz, I’m here. And I won't leave. I promise.

Yours sincerely,  
Erik


	52. Letter 52- October 6th, 1993

My Dear Charles,

I have many regrets in my life. I’ve hurt innocent people, caused irreparable damage. So many acts leading to innumerable pain and suffering and hardship.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made in my life, Schatz, there is one that glares stronger than the rest, the one that has tormented me for many, many years. And it’s a mistake that I am keen to correct, as soon as I possibly can. I’m very sorry that I didn’t ask you this question sooner, but….

Charles Francis Xavier, will you marry me?

Forever Yours,  
Erik


End file.
